**Chapter 8**
—
At dawn, a wooden sword sliced through the chill morning air, parting it with a sharp whistle.
The training grounds of the ducal knights within the Saxen estate.
Dale met the blow of the trainee knight head-on. The moment their blades clashed, Dale deflected the strike outward with precision, stepped inside the knight’s guard, and brought his weapon down toward the man’s torso.
*Thwack!*
At the very instant of impact, the wooden blade Dale held was already poised at the trainee knight’s neck.
In just a few brief exchanges, victory had been decided.
‘Hah!’
Sir Helmut, watching from the sidelines, drew in a sharp breath of disbelief. The other knights of the ducal house, observing the duel, were no less astonished.
Dale’s opponent, though still an esquire and not yet formally knighted, was no pushover. The young man, turning nineteen this year, had been raised in a knightly family and had walked the path of the sword his entire life. Soon, under the Duke of Saxen’s authority, he was to be officially knighted. Yet that very knight-in-waiting had just been defeated by a nine-year-old boy.
And not just any boy—a boy who didn’t even aspire to the path of the sword, but that of a *magus*!
“Good work, Mile.”
Even so, not a single person—including Sir Helmut—rebuked the defeated esquire.
“This was not due to your inadequacy. Do not blame yourself.”
“…Yes, sir.”
Though bitter at heart, the young knight could only accept the outcome for what it was.
What use was there in feeling wronged?
The world was not fair—and Dale von Saxen, the ducal house’s prodigy, was living proof of that unfairness.
Since the age of eight, Dale had displayed an uncanny aptitude for swordsmanship, his progress almost miraculous. By the time he turned nine, he had already begun to demonstrate sword techniques (*sword style*) of his own creation.
A swift and concise style, perfectly matched to his small frame—yet astonishingly sharp in understanding and execution. It was as though a master swordsman of the highest order were residing within the body of a child.
“Uncle Helmut, who’s next?”
Dale asked, readjusting his grip on the wooden sword. His boldness made Helmut roar with hearty laughter.
“How about facing one of the Seven Swords of the Continent next time?”
“Sounds good!”
Helmut chuckled deeply, about to rise to his feet—
“Dale.”
A calm, resonant voice called from beyond the marble colonnade.
“The Duke, His Grace!”
At once, every knight present dropped to one knee in reverence.
Dale turned toward the voice. Standing there was his father—the Duke of Saxen himself.
“Father?”
“So you were training here.”
The Black Duke—Dale’s father—spoke as he strode between the pillars.
“Yes.”
It was well known that Dale, though walking the path of magic, never neglected his sword training.
“It gladdens me greatly to see you devoted to your practice,” said the Duke, warmth glinting in his eyes.
“But that will do for today.”
Then, in a tone much heavier than before, he continued, “There is something I wish to show you.”
“I understand, Father.”
Dale nodded quietly.
“Looks like I’ll have to postpone my match with you, Uncle Helmut.”
“Haha! I’ll be looking forward to that day!”
Reluctantly, Dale set down his wooden sword. Helmut, with his usual boisterous laugh, bowed deeply to the retreating figures of father and son.
—
—
The place the Duke led Dale to was the underground arcane workshop of the ducal manor.
And there, waiting for them, was a familiar face.
“You’re here, Dale.”
“Teacher Sephia?”
It was Sephia—the elf archmage of the Blue Tower and Dale’s personal tutor, a Sixth-Circle magician.
“Follow us,” she said.
Sensing the gravity of the moment, Dale remained silent and trailed after his two mentors.
‘What’s going on all of a sudden?’
They passed through the workshop, reaching a hidden passage that stretched even deeper beneath the earth—dark and sealed with heavy magical wards.
The moment Dale stepped into that corridor, a chill of foreboding swept down his spine. The secret chamber beyond was encased in multiple layers of barriers—ones so powerful that no ordinary mage would even dare to approach.
And within that room—lined from wall to wall—stood rows of armaments, like an armory of war.
The instant he saw them, Dale understood: these were no ordinary weapons.
Every single one of them was imbued with formidable magic—dark, ominous, and brimming with malice.
‘Artifacts from the Demon Realm…!’
Dale’s eyes gleamed with fascination as he stepped closer—
“Do not touch anything.”
His father’s sharp voice halted him.
“These relics contain potent powers of darkness,” said the Black Duke, his gaze sweeping across the room.
“Our House of Saxen has, for generations, studied and mastered this cursed power—kept it bound and under control.”
The power feared and revered by all—the forbidden power.
“To protect our land and our people from our enemies,” the Duke said quietly.
Even necromancy and black magic were not excluded from that burden.
“As the heir of the ducal house, this is a power you too must bear.”
“What do you mean, Father?”
“Soon, we will assemble forces to subjugate an orc horde that has emerged in the Demon King’s territory.”
The Duke’s tone grew heavier.
“And before that battle, you will join me.”
“…!”
At last, Dale grasped his meaning.
“I’ll be going into battle with you…?”
The Duke nodded.
“Before you depart, you must first learn how to command the power of darkness that resides here.”
In other words, these artifacts had been prepared for Dale himself.
“To accept and adapt to the power of an artifact is not something done in a single day.”
“Do not worry, Dale,” came Sephia’s gentle voice, breaking her long silence. “I will lend you all the aid I can.”
“……”
Dale’s gaze turned to the long display of artifacts—swords, tomes, helmets, armor—an array of strange and powerful relics.
And then—
‘That one!’
Something caught his eye: a black cloak, seemingly ordinary at first glance. Yet Dale’s breath caught in his throat.
The shadows beneath the cloak were *moving*—wriggling like living creatures.
‘The Cloak of Shadows.’
How could he ever forget it?
It was once the prized equipment of the high-ranking demon general he had faced in his past life—the *Phantom Duke* Belka, a warlord of the Demon King’s army who commanded living shadows and wielded both sword and spell in perfect unity.
For Dale, who mastered both disciplines, it was the perfect artifact.
‘Didn’t expect to find such a prize here.’
Without hesitation, Dale ignored his father’s warning and reached out—grabbing the cloak.
Drawn purely by instinct. By hunger for power itself—just like a child acting before he thought.
“Dale!”
The Duke’s startled cry echoed through the chamber.
Artifacts possessed tremendous power—but also placed unbearable strain upon their bearers. Those fueled by darkness were especially dangerous—fatal, even, to the unprepared.
Even the Duke of Saxen would never have subjected a nine-year-old boy to such torment.
He had likely intended something mild—an artifact suited to Dale’s age and talents, perhaps one that summoned a low-ranking shadow spirit for protection.
But Dale had chosen otherwise. He had seized a *high-tier* artifact, leagues beyond his father’s intention—and wrapped it around himself.
Darkness engulfed him.
At once, the shadows beneath the cloak stirred violently—alive, ravenous, converging toward him like a swarm of piranhas scenting blood.
These were no ordinary shadows.
「Hungry! Hungry! Hungry!」
Malevolent voices whispered from the dark—living shadows with insatiable hunger, whose prey left not even bone behind.
A dreadful vision flashed through both the Duke’s and Sephia’s minds.
They moved instantly to shield Dale with their magic—
But before they could, Dale extended his hand calmly, stopping them.
“Don’t worry.”
His voice was steady—utterly devoid of fear.
And then, incredibly, the frenzied shadows stilled.
Moments ago, they had been writhing in madness—but now they knelt, motionless, as if bowing before a master they dared not defy.
“I’m fine,” Dale said simply.
The two adults froze.
“How… how can this be?”
The Duke’s breath caught in disbelief, his eyes wide with astonishment—shock deeper than any he had ever felt.
“It doesn’t hurt?” Sephia asked softly, anxious.
Dale smiled faintly. “Just a little.”
The moment he had donned the cloak, he had felt it—the suffocating malice that pressed upon his body.
This was the darkness that the House of Saxen had inherited and bound for generations—their curse and their destiny.
To endure that malice, to command it without succumbing—such was the duty of their bloodline.
Any ordinary mind would shatter beneath it. The instant one yielded, the shadows would consume their master entirely.
Artifacts like these were gluttonous beasts—they never granted power without demanding payment. And those powered by darkness were the greediest of all.
But even so—
“It just stings a little.”
The shadows beneath him trembled—no longer in hunger, but in exaltation, as though rejoicing before a new sovereign.
“I told you—I’m fine,” Dale said again, his voice unwavering.
So this was all.
He had lived his former life drenched in battle, fighting monsters across blood-soaked fields for the sake of humanity. Later, he became the Empire’s hound, butchering countless abominations and enemies of mankind.
Compared to the malice he had endured throughout that lifetime, the hatred of these shadows was no more than the prick of a needle.
“Can I try on the rest too?” Dale asked innocently, eyes shining like a curious child’s.
There were, after all, plenty more relics waiting to be tested.
